


The Hunter

by justbecauseyoubelievesomething



Series: Writer's Month 2020 Prompts [10]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Animal Death, Anxiety Attacks, Canon Compliant, F/M, Flashbacks, Hunters & Hunting, Missing Scene, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, clarke is a mess, takes place in the gap between s2 and s3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:09:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25825672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justbecauseyoubelievesomething/pseuds/justbecauseyoubelievesomething
Summary: A Bellarke drabble for Writer's Month 2020. Prompt 10: bunnies.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Series: Writer's Month 2020 Prompts [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1863823
Kudos: 14
Collections: Writer's Month 2020





	The Hunter

Clarke can quiet her mind while she hunts. It’s the only time now that her mind is still, focused. Instead of replaying memories of blood and pain, like a broken security video on loop in her head. Grainy against the inside of her eyes.

Alone in the trees, she can sit and feel the wind against her cheeks. It sounds like the soft rush of water as it brushes over the thick spring leaves and fills her mind with something bland and colorless. Soothing in its nothingness.

On the ground lies her trap, a length of twine stretched tight as her bait scrabbles on the other end. A rabbit, caught by its leg, its panic long since died down, now only pulling at the snare out of instinct.

Somewhere in the darkness of the undergrowth, larger creatures stir restlessly. Clarke can sense the way they stalk just out of her view, considering her offering.

Her fingers rest lightly around her knife handle, feeling the memory of former kills, the heavy thud of blade sinking through flesh. She squeezes once, chasing the memory before it fades away into the forced grey of her mind.

Quiet. Peace. Focus.

The creature stalks closer, even its gentle paws unable to keep from rustling the tall grasses. A flash of black fur twitches between the long stalks, but vanishes again as the creature continues to circle. Always wary of a trap.

Clarke breathes in through her nose. Out through her mouth.

The tiny bunny shakes against the twine and squeals softly.

Clarke closes her eyes, trying to summon the sound of the wind. The peace of nothingness. But this time it eludes her.

_ Bellamy crouches over the still rabbit, knife dripping with blood. He moved faster than Clarke would have thought, blade darting out to stab the little creature so suddenly that she almost missed it. _

_ For some reason her own hand is shaking, the knife blade wavering in the dappled sunlight. _

_ “Clarke.” He looks concerned, which almost makes her laugh. _

_ He’s seen her kill a man, one of their own, without hesitation. He’s seen her stir up a mob in livid anger. He’s seen her watch with cold, still gaze as he tortured a man. _

_ Not to mention, this is Bellamy Blake. Someone who in all probability wanted her dead not two weeks ago. _

_ But now he looks at her with something like softness around his eyes and she has to tuck her knife away before he sees how hard her hand is trembling. _

_ “I’m just…” She swallows thickly, not sure why her throat is clogging with panic. “Good kill.” _

_ “Thanks.” His dark eyes are trained on her as she crouches next to him. The fur of the rabbit is too soft under her exploring fingers and it’s warm, so, so warm. She draws her hand back and maybe it was too fast because Bellamy rests his knee against her thigh and she doesn’t think it’s accidental. _

_ “Hey.” _

_ “Hey.” _

_ His knee presses a little harder, a point of contact she can focus on. _

_ “You good to find a few more?” _

_ She focuses, breathes. “Of course.” _

_ The rabbit stares at her with sightless eyes. Up close, the inhumanness of its eyes, its mouth, fill her with some kind of dread. The way its mouth is still open, drooping in a silent scream as Bellamy lifts it higher. Gravity drags the wound so that blood continues to wet the grey fur and Clarke wants to scream. Or cry. Or both. _

_ She’s killed, tortured, hurt, hunted. Humans she can kill. Animals are suddenly too far. _

_ “Clarke.” _

_ She hates the way she’s dizzy and hot and tears are pooling in her eyes. Not here. Not under Bellamy’s watchful eye. _

_ She stained her hands with Atom’s blood, the knife slipping softly into his throat. She remembers the feel of the blade, punching through the thick skin. His last wretched inhale before the breath finally escaped his body. _

_ The rabbit blood is staining Bellamy’s hands because he’s still holding it and still staring at her and she’s not moving. _

_ “It’s okay,” he whispers. The stillness of his voice cuts through her spiraling thoughts. Like the blade punching through to release the tension and she can breathe again. _

_ “It’s okay.” _

_ She almost believes him. _

The panther snarls and pounces. The rabbit squeals pitifully.

Clarke falls from her perch instinctively. Knife poised. Always ready to kill.


End file.
